


What Would Darkwing Do

by Humanities_Handbag



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 2018), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Gen, Pen Pals, but it is what it is!, but it's something, i don't know what this is, it's not my best work, this was supposed to be a 1k fic but it turned into 10k words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 23:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18980758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: A prompt asked on Tumblr by magic-and-moonlit-wings."You Don't Even Know Me"-Gosalyn Mallard finds herself without much of a home.She also finds that she's pen pals with one Darkwing Duck.





	What Would Darkwing Do

**Author's Note:**

> It started out as a 1k fic, and ended up as this. 
> 
> Not my favorite piece by far. Not quite sure if I'm happy with it yet. I'm playing with the new ducktales version of Darkwing Duck and it's unfamiliar territory.
> 
> Still- I made something. Which was the point.

When Gosalyn turned three years old, she decided that her favorite color was going to be green.

It was such a revolutionary discovery that she felt it necessary to announce. She stood in front of the door when her father came home from work, planting her hands on her hips. “My favorite color’s green!”

Her father moved past her, touching her head in greeting.

“Dad!” She chased after him. He’d moved into the kitchen and was rifling through the fridge. There were some clinks and clatters. When he reappeared from behind the door, the light of the fridge casting shadows across his face, she tried again. “Green,” she said. “It’s my favorite color!”

“Okay,” he said. He closed the door and used the edge of his shirt to help twist off the bottle top.

“My room is pink,” she said, pointing towards the stairs. “I want it green .”

Actually, lots of what she owned was pink. Her large closet was all pink dresses. Her carpet was pink. There were dolls on the shelf (pink), and fancy glass ornaments she wasn’t allowed to touch (pink), and a little chandelier hanging from the ceiling (more pink). When she’d been old enough to pick a favorite color (three years old and finally given a color chart at preschool) she’d decided it was green, and her large room felt like it belonged to someone else.

Everything Pink was someone else’s.

Her father closed the fridge door - “Then paint it green” -and brushed past again, stalking through the house and up the creaky stairs, out of sight.

* * *

Later, she’d try to tell her mother, too. “Greens my favorite color,” she said from the table.

Her mother pushed over a platter of sweet potatoes. Her bracelets shone gold in the evening burn outside. “Alright, honey,” said her mother, pointing to her plate. “Eat your dinner.”

* * *

They’d lived in a large house in a large neighborhood. There weren’t many kids, and a lot of her time was spent on her own.

Which was fine.

Besides, she’d had her grandfather.

He came over every other Saturday and took her out. Museums, ice cream stores, movies, they’d done all they could together. And the world outside her (pink) room had expanded into one of beauty and wonder and likes and dislikes.

She learned that she liked mint chip ice cream.

She hated sour cream, but loved regular cream.

Baseball was the best, and hockey was the worst.

She’d spent hours with her grandfather looking at dinosaur bones in the Museum of Natural History, towing him through to see space exhibits and science experiments.

He knew what she liked, and she was grateful for it.

“I like green,” said Gosalyn while she ate mint chip on a cone.

“Green is a fantastic color, Gosalyn,” her grandfather praised.

She’d beamed.

When he’d dropped her off that night, she leaned into a hug. “You know me,” she told him.

He’d looked down at her. “Of course I do.”

“No,” she said. “ You know me.”

Her father was at the door then, a bottle in his hand, gesturing her through with dark eyes. When she’d run up to him, his dark eyes turned on her.

The world went Pink, but she stood against it. “I like dinosaurs,” she declared, little fists at her sides.

“Inside,” growled her father.

So she went.

* * *

When Gosalyn turns four, she finds out that she likes more things;

She likes tapioca pudding.

She likes hot dogs and hamburgers and cake.

She likes soccer.

Hockey is okay, now.

She likes new colors; orange and red and yellow.

She likes sneakers and pigtails and winter and summer.

She tells her grandfather when they meet, every other Saturday. He listens and nods and indulges. He tells her what he likes (chocolate, painting, watches ) and she agrees with half of them.

“Mom,” she says later on that year, just weeks before her seventh birthday. “Can we go to a baseball game for a party?”

Her mother pulled her (pink) sheets up to her chin. “Honey, you know I already booked the dance studio for your birthday.”

“But I don’t like dancing. I like baseball.”

Her mother sighed. “Gosalyn. We can’t change things. If you wanted to change parties, you could have told me earlier.”

Gosalyn sat up fast, and her covers (pink) fell down to her waist. “But I did tell you. Last month, remember? Do you remember, mom?”

“Gosalyn. It’s bedtime.”

“But I told you,” she said again. She curled her fists at her sides. Her chest was too tight, and her mind buzzed with an awful pink. Like her room. Like it wasn’t hers. “I told you! I did !”

“Gosaly,” said her mother, pushing out the word like it wasn’t her name.

Like it was Pink.

Gosalyn watched her mother leave, turning out the light.

* * *

Gosalyn turned five in a dance studio. Her mother took pictures and laughed and spoke to parents and didn’t notice when Gosalyn had hidden beneath a table and kicked the wall until her toes hurt.

When they’re driving home, she’d sat in the back silently while her mother talked to a friend from the little bluetooth in her ear.

It’s only when they’re pulling into the driveway does Gosalyn speak.

“It’s like you don’t even know me.”

Her mother looks in the rearview mirror. “What, Gosalyn?”

Gosalyn pushed open the door and ran into the house.

* * *

Drake Mallard knew exactly what he liked.

He was on the cusp of turning thirty eight, and he’d spent his entire life modeling himself after the one thing he liked more than anything else.

Drake Mallard liked Darkwing Duck.

Loved Darkwing Duck.

Breathed and exuded and carried Darkwing Duck.

Everything he’d done was modeled after one, perfect, wonderful phrase that had shaped most of his life. 

WWDW

_What Would Darkwing Do_

The thing was, Drake Mallard was useless . Drake Mallard was a nobody from the middle of the country who wore pink shirts and baseball hats. Drake Mallard was almost forty years old, and only had a few lousy acting gigs to show for it.

Drake Mallard was a nobody.

And then, Drake Mallard was Darkwing Duck .

He signed posters.

Took pictures with fans.

Did everything Darkwing would do. 

There’s an empty feeling inside him that he mentally pokes at. It’s settled between his ribs, wrapping little vines through his veins. It’s been there for some time.

He doesn’t worry too much about it.

When the job happens, it would fill itself up.

And so he accepted the job offer and treated himself to a night in. He watched reboots of his old hero on the screen of a laptop and ate pizza straight from the box. His hero, Darkwing Duck, soared across the screen, taking out evildoers, saving the city, crying out absolutely novel worthy punchlines.

He’d done it alone, too. Returning to an empty lair to revel in his good deeds and days won.

There was no reason Drake Mallard should need any more than that, either.

* * *

When Gosalyn is five and a half, Darkwing Duck got a reboot, and she’s gone for good.

He’s better than anything she’s liked before.

Ice cream.

Dinosaurs.

Maybe even the color green (which is big for her).

She and her grandfather collect everything they can on him.

Newspapers and posters and action figures, and she keeps everything in a box under her bed.

“He’s the best,” she tells her grandfather, showing him her collection. He was the only one allowed to see it. “And one day, I’m gonna meet him!”

“I believe it,” he told her, nodding seriously.

She turned on him, fisting his jacket between small hands. They were on the back porch of her parents large home. It wasn’t a Saturday. Her mother had left for a retreat somewhere far away and her father hadn’t shown up after work, and so they’d done what they’d always done.

“Gosalyn,” her mother said over the phone, calling their house from the car. “Listen. I won’t be back until tomorrow and your father…” she paused, and Gosalyn heard her breathe out quick. “I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

She fiddled with the telephone wire, sliding down to the floor and kicking off her (pink) shoes. “Okay…”

Her mother continued, barely phased by the weight on her daughter’s voice. “But listen. I figured everything out, alright? I pulled some strings-”

It was a laughable phrase. Her mother did more than pull some strings .

She pulled many strings.

Every string.

Gosalyn’s whole life was amounting to pulled strings, and she was suffocating in knots.

But finding out her grandfather would be coming over was a welcome surprise, and when he’d shown up at the door, she knew that at least one good thing would come out of unraveling the strings the world had set before her.

And so they’d sat on the back porch and discussed superheroes while Gosalyn somersaulted and dirtied her pink dress and couldn’t have cared less what her mother or father said about it.

Things were good when her grandfather came over.

There weren’t any strings when he was there.

“Bravo!” he shouted, clapping when she’d landed an exceptionally good (and muddy) little flip. “Darkwing Duck couldn’t have done better!”

If there were strings, they only held things together.

* * *

The miracle happens when Gosalyn turned six, and her grandfathers company, Waddlemeyer Technologies, managed to book a celebrity endorsement and host.

Gosalyn nearly lost her mind when she found out who it would be.

“DARKWING DUCK?”

“Yes!” Her grandfather laughed, lifting her off the ground. She had her arms wrapped tight around his neck. “I don’t know how the lawyers got in contact with him. But they did, and here we are-”

“And I get to meet him!?”

“You get to meet him!”

She shrieked and hollered and did three miserable flips in the backyard until her mother stomped out and told her not to dirty her dress. She ran back, barely looking at her mother -who barely looked back- and hung off her grandfather like a lifeline.

Like all the pulled strings had collected on him.

“Do I get to talk to him?”

“You might.”

“I’ll get to tell him what I like!” She bounced up and down. “I like so many things ! Do you think he’ll listen? Do you think he likes things, too?”

He finally managed to sit her down long enough to let her know that she’d get to at least see the caped crusader. And if she got a chance to talk to him, he’d do everything he could to make it happen. She swung her feet and squealed. And when that got too hard, she jumped up, yelled “ be right back! ” and ran up the stairs, returning with her Darkwing Box. Everything was spread out onto the back porch, carefully and with some reverence.

He helped her, sorting through the mish mosh of her hero.

“I’ll bring this with me,” she breathed. “Maybe he can sign it all!”

“Pick one thing, alright?”

She didn’t hear him. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. “I have so much to tell him!” Her hands trembled, and she sat on them. “I’ll tell him about ice cream. But only the mint chip kinds.”

“Obviously.”

“And dinosaurs .”

“He’ll love that.”

“And baseball and hockey and soccer- do you think he likes sports?”

“I think he loves them.” Her grandfather looked through the box, rifling through more of the toys and cutouts, picking out a few and smoothing them on the porch

She stood by, still so tiny in stature, straightening the wrinkles from her (pink) shirt. Her fingers twisted and twined, and her eyes ( green ) watched her grandfather carefully. “Hey, grandpa?”

He hummed, looking away and back towards her.

She swallowed. “If I told him what I liked, do you think he’d remember?”

He smiled, putting the papers back down. “I’m sure he would. And then: “Why don’t you write a list?”

She writes one that night.

In green ink.

* * *

**To Darkwing Duck,**

**My name is Gosalyn Mallard, and these are the things that I like.**

**The color green.**

**Soccer.**

**Dinosaurs.**

**Anything green.**

**And sometimes orange.**

**But not pink. At all.**

**I want you to have this list so that you can know me, because one day I’m going to be a hero, and heroes should know each other. My grandfather knows me, and he’s really nice. But I want someone else to know me, too, because that would be cool. Do you like anything? You can tell me! Even if it’s secret, you can tell me, because I’m great at keeping secrets, and there’s no one I would tell them to.**

**Except maybe my grandpa.**

**But he’s really good at keeping secrets, too.**

**Love,**

**Gosalyn.**

* * *

Drake Mallard hadn’t even wanted to do the stupid job for Waddlemeyer Technologies. But his agent had assured him that the paycheck that would come from it would pad his savings for a rainy day, so he’d said yes.

“But only for a few minutes,” he said. “I took this job so I could play a hero! Not sell some guys random electronics.”

“It’s Waddlemeyer Technologies . He’s one of the biggest tech moguls we’ve got in the city. And besides,” said his agent. “The producer for the studio works alongside him.”

“Mr. McDuck?”

“Waddlemeyer built a lot of the security systems around the man’s house.” His agent shrugged, handing him all the details in an envelope. “Apparently it’s one of the best security systems out there, and he wants to thank the man by sending you out there.”

Drake looked down at the envelope. “This wasn’t what I signed up for,” he said again. “I did this job so I could inspire kids . Maybe help a few out. Deal with Lady Danger! Maybe bump into the unexpected!””

“Yeah, well, welcome to Shobiz.” He snagged the costumes hat from where it lay on the trailers couch, handing it to Drake. He saluted with his coffee and walked to the door “This is the most dangerous thing you’ll do here. I’d stop expecting it to be, if I were you. Nothing here’s unexpected.”

And so he goes, doing his best to not expect anything. Sitting alone, waiting for someone to prep the green room, he holds onto his hat between fidgeting fingers.

He’d been expecting more from this whole thing. Expected him to at least change a few lives the same way Jim Starling had changed his.

“No expectations,” he reminded himself, sitting back in the wheely chair they’d given him, kicking the floor, rolling back a few inches. “ No expectations .”

The vague, empty feeling inside him returns twofold, and he rubs at his chest right over its place.

He’d gotten into this alone. He’d surge forward alone. He’d survive alone.

He’d inspire alone.

Someone knocked on the door and let him know the green room was ready for him. He donned his hat and thanked them before striding out towards his Expectation-Less Destiny.

And that was exactly what he’d meet.

(Destiny, as it would turn out, had bright red hair)

(He wouldn’t expect that, either)

* * *

She meets Darkwing Duck.

The first time Gosalyn meets Darkwing Duck, it’s more of an accident that she meets him. Or maybe just good timing.

Her grandfather had told her that day that she may not have been able to meet the hero at all, but that he was happy to deliver the letter to him. He’d brought her along so she could at least watch the hero praise Waddlemeyer Technologies for their breakthroughs in crime prevention.

That hadn’t been enough.

It had only taken her a single “I’m gonna go find a bathroom,” for her to be cast away on her own.

She found him coming out of a conference room. His back was to her, and he was fiddling with his mask, his hat tucked under her arm.

When she’d shouted his name -” Darkwing! ” he’d nearly jumped to the ceiling, scrambling to put his mask back onto his face. “Oh gosh! Oh my gosh, it’s you!”

He turned, his hands clutching the shirt over his heart. “Jeez, kid, give a warning why don’t you?”

She was too caught up to recognize the blunt words, the snipped tone, the wary stare. Gosalyn jumped up and around, note tight between her hands. “I love superheroes,” she squealed. “I- I have everything of yours! In a box! Under my bed!”

That at least got him snapped out of his reluctance, and he preened, head high. “Well isn’t that nice. You bring anything to sign?”

She stopped jumping. “No. I didn’t think I’d be meeting you.”

“Ah. A stowaway on a mission, then.”

She didn’ t know what it meant, but it sounded fun, so she nodded. And then, remembering at the last moment, “but I brought you this!” Extending her trembling hands, she offered up the little scrap of paper and green ink.

“You know I have an address for fan mail, right kid?”

“It’s not fan mail, doofus. It’s a list!”

“… a list?”

“Of the things I like! So you can know me!” She struck a pose. “I’m gonna be a hero like you one day. I want to see if we like the same stuff!”  

He didn’t look as much like his pictures up close. He was softer. A little rounder. His eyes were tired, and he didn’t smile much. His hands twitched every so often in little, nervous movements.

Moving closer, she caught the smell of peppermint shampoo.

His voice drew her back, the hero unfolding the bit of paper and squinting at the blockish lettering. “You just wanted me to have a list of things you liked?”

“Mmmhm. So I can see what we both like.” She nodded. “No one really knows what I like. So I thought I’d tell you. You know. Like… like mint chocolate chip ice cream. That’s my favorite.”

She’d only known him for a few minutes, but the smile that hesitatingly bloomed was the first real one she’d seen. “Yeah. That’s my favorite too.”

“It is!”   
  
“That or coffee.”

Gosalyn stuck out her tongue. “Not coffee.”

“My favorite, my choice, kid.”

“That’s gross.”

Darkwing snorted before looking up and down the hallway. There wasn’t anyone there except for the little girl, who looked about ready to burst. He sighed, gestured toward her. “Come on. I have to go to the green room before the conference. I’m not sure where you’re supposed to be, but we can call security there. And-” he waved her note, “you can tell me more. I’m sure there’s stuff you didn’t write down. Maybe we have more in common.”

She stuffed her fists against her mouth to hold in the shriek, scampered forward, grabbed his hand (much to his shock, if his face said anything), and pulled him along.

* * *

Gosalyn liked many things.

And Darkwing listened to them all.

She wasn’t sure why he listened. And from the way he kept shaking his head, like he was waking up from dream after dream, he wasn’t much sure, either.

But he listened.

She talked about soccer. About green. About pink dresses, giving hers a terrible little pull. She talked about hockey and dinosaurs and sports and science.

She showed him a few of her best superhero kicks and punches, and nearly broke a lamp, but he caught it in time. Which was way cool.

At some point, she stopped to take a breath, considering him quietly for a moment. “Does anyone know what you like?”

He stuttered. Stumbled. Said something about how heroes couldn’t have friends so no one was there to listen to things he liked. “I don’t like many interesting things. It’s all boring outside of the suit.”

“Oh,” she’d said, racking her brain for six year old things her teacher had taught her. The first grade classroom was a very good place for this sort of thing. Gosalyn was never good at the friend thing. She beat everyone at everything, and her whole class was jealous.

Still, her teacher had told her once that the best way to make friends was with open arms. And not with a fist, her teacher had shrilly exclaimed, pointing to the boy who’d dared her to punch her. Which she had.

It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t take what he gave.

Gosalyn shook her head, looking at the superhero in front of her, standing by the lamp she’d nearly broken. “Even if you’re boring,” she said, “would you tell me?”

He stumbled again.

But in the end, he did.

It turned out, there were plenty of things he liked.

“Western movies,” he told her. “And knitting.”

“You knit ?”

“I’m a great knitter.” He wiggled his fingers. “Ask anyone. I can knit a sweater and stop a villain at the same time!”

“That’s stupid.” Her face contracted. “You said we should get dangerous , but that’s not dangerous! It’s dumb !”

“No. It’s practical , little miss.” He sniffed. “Your parents should teach you about knitting. Or manners. Or both .”

Gosalyn shrugged. “They don’t really like many things.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” He stood, stretching, His back popped and his shoulders cracked. He gave each one a quick roll. “I mean… they like you! So that’s at least one thing, right?”

“I… don’t know.”

She didn’t notice him moving until he was kneeling beside the chair.

Peppermint swam around her, and beneath that she could smell toothpaste and coffee and ash. There were wrinkles around his eyes and at the sides of his bill that crinkled when she made him smile.

“Oh come on. They’re your parents .”

She wanted to lean forward and press her face into his shoulder.

Instead, she sat on her hands and shook her head. “I don’t think they like me much.”

The same wrinkles deepened at that -his face an absolute stew of origami concern- and he opened his mouth to protest when her grandfather opened the door.

“Gosalyn!” He was pink in the face, which was never good. Her grandfather rarely got angry with her, no matter how many soccer balls she kicked or how much mud she splattered. Still, she’d wandered away, and her own face flushed when guilt settled itself behind her ribs. “You can’t just wander off- I am so sorry , sir.”

Darkwing waved him off. “It’s alright. We were just talking.”

“Yeah,” she parrotted. “We were talking!”

Her grandfather breathed in deep. Let it out slow. “He’s got work to do. Say goodbye.” To Darkwing, he grimaced. “Thank you again. I’m sorry if she was bothering you-”

“What, her? No! We had a good time. She kept me company.”

“Yeah!” crowed Gosalyn, confidence renewed. “See! We had a great time!”

Darkwing snorted. “She’s sure got a lot of spirit. I’m sure she’ll be the next big hero in this town.” He winked down at Gosalyn. “I’ll check your list again. Maybe we’ve got more stuff in common.” The letter went into his pocket, and he stepped forward to shake her grandfather’s hand. “If I need to deliver anything to her,” he told her grandfather, “I’ll send it your way.“

He watches them leave, waving to them as they go.

Drake Mallard -Darkwing Duck- hadn’t noticed when the tendrils around his ribs slowly back away.

But he noticed when, just a few minutes later, they slithered back into place.

He rubbed at his chest again, getting up when the manager came to get him, leading him towards the stage, trying to push away the feeling he’d yet to name.

 _WWDD_  he thinks to himself, as he’s pushed out.  _What Would Darkwing Do_

* * *

Gosalyn couldn’t hear her grandfathers chiding as he dragged her out of the greenroom past the final words that spun round and round and round.

I’ll send it through you …

“Did you hear?” she said, interrupting her grandfathers lecture about lying and bothering superheroes. “Darkwing Duck is going to send me letters! Me !”

“He’s a busy man, Gosalyn.” Her grandfather sounded tired and worn as he walked them both through the lobby of his industries building, waving to a security guard and a secretary, flashing his badge. “I don’t know if he’ll be able to-”

“He said he would,” he protested, swinging off his arm. “So he’s going to! And you’ll give me whatever he sends me, right?”

“Gosalyn…” He squeezed her hand. “You know he’s just an actor-”

“ Right ?”

Her grandfather looked like he wanted to say something.

One look at her eyes stopped him. Instead, he squared his jaw and nodded. “Right,” he said.

And that was all.

* * *

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. Because two weeks later, on the second saturday of the month, her grandfather is at their door with something in his hand. “You’ll never guess what showed up on my desk,” he said, sounded like he truly couldn’t believe it himself.

She didn’t remember to say hello as she snatched the letter and ran up to her room.

* * *

  
**Dear Gosalyn,**

**Thank you for your letter.**

**We have a lot in common as it turns out!**

**I also like mint chip ice cream. And dinosaurs.**

**I don’t know a lot about sports. Sorry.**

**My favorite foods are waffles and hot dogs. I hate pancakes.**

**Is this enough for your list?**

**DWD**

**P.S. You’re absolutely right. Heroes should know one another, and I’m sure you’re going to be one.**

* * *

Darkwing Duck hadn’t known what to do when he’d met Gosalyn Waddlemeyer.

Her grandfather had reached out through his lawyers to see if he’d be willing to endorse new security systems. There’d been a nice cash sum attached, and there wasn’t a recently unemployed actor who’d be stupid enough to say no to a savings cushion.

And that’s when he’d met Gosalyn.

She’d been made of fire, popping out the top of her head in the form of obnoxiously red hair.

She’d worn bright pink, but resented everything about it.

She’d called knitting stupid, and nearly broke a lamp.

And then she’d given him a letter.

The first one he’d sent out as an in-character joke. People sent fan mail. He was willing to oblige.

And then they’d kept coming. And he’d kept sending.

What do you like , she’d asked. And for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t sure how to answer. It had been a long time since anyone asked that. He wasn’t even really sure what he liked outside of acting and his Darkwing Duck collectables.

Drake Mallard, he reminded himself, was a nobody.

Drake Mallard was a person who collected stuff to hang on a wall.

Drake Mallard didn’t have many friends, drank too much coffee, liked playing mini golf, and snored too loudly when he slept.

Behind a mask, he was better.

And yet, behind paper, without a mask? Drake Mallard could at least shine through a little. Enough to be recognizable again.

So he’d thought.

And he’d written.

And he’d kept writing.

* * *

Gosalyn’s next letter ended up being a little more thorough than the first. She filled it with costume ideas and superhero phrases. She told him all about how hockey had been terrible at first, but was getting better.

She told him about pink.

 **My parents aren’t very good listeners,**  she said.  **I don’t think they know me. My room is pink and my clothes are pink. Sometimes I don’t see my dad for a long time. My mom is home more, but I never see her either. I don’t know what they like.**

She stared at that long enough for her heart to begin aching pink. Then she shook her head, and instead delved into a long list about what her grandfather liked.

At least she knew that.

* * *

She wasn’t sure how her grandfather managed to get that letter along to him. He said that his lawyers knew the studios lawyers, and they’d managed to work it out from there.

“I hope you said lots of nice things,” he said, on their next Saturday together.

She nodded. “I told her all about you,” she promised. “About your favorite ice cream and books.”

“Good. I’d hate to live in a world where Darkwing Duck didn’t know my favorite ice cream color.”

Some part of her thought he might have been joking, but she didn’t have time to explain that it was a very serious thing. If superheroes didn’t know what you liked, then how could they save you.

Her grandfather becomes a messenger of sorts, and every other Saturday is met with a reply.

.

.

.

**Gosalyn,**

**Pink is a great color! My favorite shirt is pink. I wear it all the time when I don’t wear my superhero outfit.**

**Give pink a chance, that’s all I’m saying.**

.

.

.

**Darkwing Duck,**

**Pink is bad. Pink isn’t mine. Everything I own is pink.**

**Have you treid wearing green? It’s much better.**

**Gosalyn**

.

.

.

**Gosalyn,**

**I still think you should give pink more of a chance. But until then, I’m happy to inform that I’ve gone out and bought a green jacket to go** **over** **my pink shirt.**

**You’re right.**

**Green is great.**

**Darkwing Duck**

* * *

“Who are you writing,” her mother asked her one Sunday afternoon, putting down the phone and leaning over the kitchen table.

“Darkwing Duck.”

Her mother looked at the page. Scanned it.

“Hm,” said her mother. “You know he’s just an actor.”

“No. He’s real ,” she said. “He fights crime.”

“Hm,” her mother said again. “You spelled tried wrong.”

* * *

The letters piled up in the box beneath her bed. She always used green ink. He used purple or black or blue. She showed them to her grandfather, who read them all with careful eyes.

“Why did you write this one?” He held up a letter she’d written two weeks before.

**Darkwing Duck,**

**My dad is never home, and my mom isn’t either. I’m going to try and use the house for practice! I’ll get** **super** **dangerous!**

**What kicks do you like best. I’ll do those.**

**Gosalyn**

She read it again and shrugged. “Because I want to be a hero.”

“But why did you write this ?” He pointed to the first line, jabbing his finger against the page.

She did a little kick, landing awkwardly on her foot with a vicious cry of, “ Let’s get dangerous! ”

“Gosalyn? Why did you-”

“Because it’s true,” she called over her shoulder before trying another kick. “And a hero is always honest.”

She didn’t see her grandfather snap a picture with his phone.

* * *

Drake Mallard always been happy to answer fan mail as Darkwing Duck before. He felt more comfortable behind the character. Confident. Himself. But this had been different. The lists of likes had turned into a child’s life being torn and twisted, and he’d clung to the letters, not sure what to do beyond replying.

He’d wanted to be a hero. Wanted to inspire children on lunchboxes and posters.

And then he’d met Gosalyn.

Gosalyn, who hated pink, loved ice hockey, and could say the entire alphabet backwards three times fast.

Gosalyn, who felt alone.

Suddenly, faced with the embers of a child mid-extinguish, he wasn’t sure how to be a hero anymore.

Writing back seemed like the only thing he could do.

And whenever he did pen a new letter, sitting down at a desk, responding to questions about little, dumb things like favorite dinosaurs or ice creams, he forgets about the cold spots settled in his chest.

Suddenly, Darkwing Duck wasn’t quite as much there as he was before.

He tried to write that down in a letter to her. Tried his best to stay in character, where he was most comfortable. Hiding behind a hat and a mask and a cape and a character he’d auditioned for and gotten the part.

 **Gosalyn,**  he wrote.

 **My favorite things are crime fighting and wearing a cape**  .

He looked down at that for a while. Darkwing Duck like Danger! And fighting! And backflips!

Drake Mallard? He liked mint chip and t-rexes.

He erased the page and started again.

* * *

**Gosalyn,**

**I love dinosaurs and mint chip ice cream with extra whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles and, sometimes, sour gummy worms (my favorite candy).**

**I also love mini-golf. It’s just about the only sport I can play.**

**Darkwing Duck**

* * *

The next time her mother and father were out, there was a new woman knocking on the front door.

“Hello there. You’re Gosalyn, right?” She wore a nice suit, and her hair was dark and curled, and tied up tight. “Your grandfather sent me over. Are your parents home?”

“No.” She glared. “You know my grandfather?”

The woman took a pad of paper out of her pocket and wrote something down. Then she smiled at Gosalyn again. She had a nice smile.

Then again, if Darkwing Duck taught her anything, most villains did.

“I do! He’s been talking to me for a few weeks. We’re good friends. He said I should come talk to you.”

She leaned on the door, closing it just enough so that the woman couldn’t fit through if she’d wanted to. “My parents aren’t home,” she said again. “I’m not supposed to let you in.”

“That’s right. I won’t come in unless there’s an adult.” She smiled again. “I’ll come back later. With your grandfather. Does that sound alright?”

Gosalyn nodded, then closed the door.

The lock clicked into place.

* * *

**Darkwing Duck,**

**There was a lady at our house asking questions. My parents weren’t home, so I didn’t let her in.**

**I think she was a reporter.**

**How do you talk to the press? You’re so good at it!**

**Gosalyn.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Gosalyn,**

**Lots of practice.**

**I used to be an actor, so I always had to pretend to talk to someone.**

**What sort of questions did she ask?**

**Darkwing Duck**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Darkwing Duck,**

**She asked me why I was home alone.**

**She asked me about my dad.**

**And my mom.**

**She asked me if I was safe.**

**I told her they weren’t home so she couldn’t come in, but then she went around the house and looked in the recycling. She says she’s going to come back later, but I told her to scram, because I’m not supposed to talk to weird strangers. It was scary.**

**What do you do when things are scary? I bet you do everything on your own. You’re good at that.** **You said you didn’t need anyone.**

**If I’m going to be a hero like you, I need to do things alone.**

**I don’t need anyone, either.**

**Gosalyn**

* * *

“Drake, come on. We’ve got filming to do.”

His agent was a taller man. Broad shoulders and slicked hair, he loomed over Drake in his little trailer. Drake sat at the fold out table, scribbling back to the latest of Gosalyn’s letters.

“Just a minute-”

“The director won’t wait a minute. And you know how stingy McDuck is about his filming time. Any extra and it’ll be on you.”

Drake looked at his reply. It was pithy. Barely what it needed to be. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond to something like what she’d sent.

He turned toward his agent. “There’s this little girl who’s been sending mail. She sent me… well- just listen .” He read it out loud, emphasizing the alone and don’t need anyone . When he was done, he looked up at his agent.

“How would you respond to that?”

His agent shook his head. “It’s fanmail. Have one of the studio interns write back.” 

“No. This is different. I  _know_  this girl. I remember her- she asked me…” he gave it a shake. “How would  _Darkwing_  reach out. What would Darkwing do if he thought someone he knew was in trouble.” 

“It’s fanmail. Send her a signed picture. Come on.”

Drake gave the letter one last look before donning the rest of his costume and following the man out.

 _I don’t need anyone, either_  , she’d said.

“Drake!” His agent again, motioning. “You coming? Or are we charging you for time wasted.”  

Without much else to do, he followed.

* * *

Gosalyn turns six years old, and begins to learn that she likes many more things.

But she also learns there are things she doesn’t like.

She didn’t like it when her father began coming home earlier and earlier.

She didn’t like the clinking sound in the fridge.

She didn’t like his shouting.

She didn’t like her large house.

She didn’t like it when her mother vanished.

She didn’t like the color pink.

Especially when her father had come home from work to see her writing a letter. He grabbed her arm, hard. “Who’ve you been writing!”

She pulled on her arm. “Darkwing Duck.”

“ Who .”

Let me go -”

“Who’ve you been writing,” he growled again, squeezing her arm harder. His eyes flashed, staring down at the page. “If you’ve been telling that woman anything-”

“I told you!”

“Your grandfather,” his voice dropped low. “He’s been telling that woman things. Now they’re asking me questions. If you’re in on it, too-”

His next tug seared, burned. With a shout, she sprang, and her foot cracked against his knee. He fell, and his hand released just enough for her to wiggle free and run through the kitchen, up the stairs.

When she looked at her arm, the yellow downy feathers had been crumpled and were beginning to fall away from his hand. The skin beneath had turned pink.

That was the year where she began liking less and less.

Her entire world was turning Pink…

(dresses)

(rooms)

(bruises)

…and she let’s it push her out.

* * *

**Darkwing Duck,**

**You said to get dangerous.**

**I don’t want to get dangerous.**

**I want**

She didn’t finish that letter.

She sent it anyway.

* * *

That was the year that Darkwing Duck moved off the screen and into reality. And Gosalyn couldn’t have been happier.

It was a blip through all the pink when the news had blared on from her father’s office, and she stood by with her back pressed to the wall, listening while the reporters shouted back and forth about criminals being apprehended by what they thought might have been Darkwing Duck.

“It’s amazing,” one of the reporters said. “Matt, you have to see this. Three crime bosses, dumped on the police steps. He left a note. Signed it Darkwing Duck and everything.”

“And this is of course two weeks after the studio filming Darkwing Duck collapsed and both actors seemingly vanished,” another reporter chimed in. “Bodies were never found, but we did speak to a small child from the McDuck family who said-”

The TV changed channels and clicked off. 

* * *

**Darkwing Duck,**

**I knew you were a real hero!**

**I told everyone, but they didn’t believe me!**

**And if you want, you can come get me! I can be your sidekick, if you want! We can do** **everything** **together. And I can show you everything that I like, and you can show me everything that you like.**

**Does that sound good?**

**I’d be a great sidekick! The** **best** **sidekick. And I could live in your secret lair and everything.**

**I know you said that heroes worked alone and whatever, but maybe we could do things together!**

**That sounds good, right?**

**Gosalyn**

* * *

She’d give that note to her grandfather and tell him all about it.

Her grandfather was looking worn. He was less fun to be with when he came over, too. He asked questions upon questions, writing down answers. Everything she sent was captured in a picture first, even though she said he couldn’t show anyone else, because they were secret.

“These are important,” he explained. And then, after a moment, “Gosalyn… things might start to change a lot around here.”

“I know!” She did a little kick (she was getting better at those) and punched the air twice. “Darkwing’s gonna come soon. I’m gonna be his sidekick!” She turned around and did another punch. “You can come too!”

“Thank you, honey, but I mean…” he struggled for words, searching through the air. “People might come by and ask questions again.”

“About what?”

“About your mom and dad.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s their job.”

“Can I tell them about Darkwing, too?” She grinned, punching some more in front of her, drawing her fists back. “I want to tell them all about being a hero! That’s better. My mom and dad are boring.”

“Okay. But… Gosalyn. You need to tell them. I’m buying a house now a few cities away. And after you tell them, we’ll go there.”

“What?” She punched forward again. “But I don’t want to go. Darkwing can’t find me if I go.”

He sat down next to her, and when she tried to punch again, he caught her fist. “You have to tell them the truth, okay? You can’t tell them about being a sidekick. You have to tell them about your mom and dad.”

“But this is the truth! I have to stay! So Darkwing can find me !”

Her grandfather swallowed and shook his head.

Her mind began to swim pink.

“He was an actor, Gosalyn. That was his job. I don’t know who’s playing superhero right now-”

“It’s Darkwing .”

“I know. Gosalyn, I know . But I need to worry about you right now, not him. And when people come by, you need to tell them-”

“I’ll tell them about Darkwing,” she pulled back. “I want to talk about things I like !”

“I know-”

“No one asks me about what I like!” Everything was pink. The world was swimming pink.

Nothing was hers.

“I don’t want to tell them about them! I don’t want to leave! Darkwing needs to find me!” Angry tears sprung into her eyes, and she stomped her feet on the deck. “He’s going to!”

“Gosalyn…” He rubbed his face. “Just… tell them what you can. Alright?”

“I will,” she snapped. “I’ll tell them everything.”

He stopped asking after that.

He took the letter with him when her mom got home and her grandfather could leave again. Her mother glared his way, but he didn’t say anything. He just waved to Gosalyn, pocketed the letter, and got into his car.

“Stupid,” her mother spat, grabbing Gosalyn’s hand and dragging her into the house. “ Meddling . Trying to see things that aren’t-” She let go of Gosalyn’s hand and stomped around the house, wiping down nonexistent dust off everything, muttering about people who shouldn’t stick their noses in other people’s businesses.

An hour later, overcome by her apparent anger over snooping people, she grabbed her keys and left.

Gosalyn stood in the living room and watched the sun go down and the rest of the house turn dark.

* * *

**Darkwing Duck,**

**I think I am very alone.**

**Gosalyn**

* * *

Darkwing’s lair was little more than the back rooms at an abandoned factory. He’d told Launchpad that they could have just used his house, but the driver had insisted that they’d need a secret, even if it was temporary.

“We’ll find something better, DW,” Launchpad promised. “But if you’re going to do this superhero thing for real, then we need somewhere to meet where no one will suspect! What’ll happen if some neighbor sees Darkwing with the keys to your apartment?”

It was a good point. He couldn’t just stroll in, and too many trips through the balcony might look suspicious.

So he agreed, and they found the little space to call their own, and for the first few weeks everything was fine.

Until he found the letters again.

He’d kept them all in a manilla envelope, and when the studio kicked him off, everything he’d owned had been thrown away. Collecting it all had been a chore, and Launchpad had been kind enough to give a hand.

Thankfully, he’d been a small enough actor before his break that no one knew much about who he was, and so he’d walked off the movie lot with armfulls of things and not much of a hassle beyond that.

And he’d found her letters again.

There wasn’t any way of responding to them. Not anymore. He flipped through them, remembering the face of the sender.

Bright red hair and yellow, downy feathers. Too small, but looming. She’d throttled life around her with such force, knocking down lamps and listing everything she’d ever liked.

He flipped around the letters, watching the chronology turn her into something even smaller than what she’d already been.

His ribs ached and his lungs squeezed.

“Darkwing?” Launchpad was back, another armfull of posters from his trailer clutched to his chest. “You good, DW?”

“What? Oh. Oh, yeah.” He put the letters down. “Let me help you with that. You know - I got this poster when I was ten years old. Starling even signed it! See?”

And the letters are forgotten for a time.

* * *

.

.

.

But not really.

* * *

**Darkwing Duck,**

**I talked to more people at the house.**

**They are scary.**

**Gosalyn**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Darkwing Duck,**

**You haven’t written me back.**

**Gosalyn**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Darkwing Duck,**

**I’m not sure what to write if you don’t write me back.**

**Gosalyn**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Darkwing Duck,**

**I don’t want to be a hero anymore.**

**Heroes write people back.**

**Gosalyn**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Darkwing Duck,**

**I’m sorry I said that.**

**You’re still a hero. I watched you on TV last night when the reporters were talking about that crime you solved. It was great. I saw you have your own sidekick now. That’s good.**

**Heroes shouldn’t be alone.**

**Gosalyn**

* * *

When the Saturday of her grandfather arrived again, he didn’t have a note.

“He stopped sending them,” he told her. “I’m sorry, Gosalyn. I checked, but-”

Gosalyn locked herself in her room and wouldn’t talk to any of the people who her grandfather had let into the house. She could hear them looking around, talking quietly, taking notes. Heard them drive away.

When it got later, she fished the box out from under her bed. She took out letters, one at a time, and lay them on the floor. They watched her, all purple ink and careful penmanship.

“I’m alone,” she told them, like they’d know what to do. “I’m alone .”

Darkwing had always prided himself on being alone.

She didn’t know if she could do the same.

I want … she’d written, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to claw the answer out to the surface.

I want.

I want .

I  **want** …

(family)

(love)

(home)

… nothing.

Gosalyn picked up each little note and put them back into the box. She slid it beneath the bed again.

* * *

Drake Mallard, now Darkwing, wasn’t sure what to do.

Which royally sucked, because asking WWDD at that moment was not helping. And if he was going to be Darkwing Duck, it sort of felt apt to at least have an  _idea_. 

He was Darkwing Duck now. Darkwing Duck, who was strong and willfull and didn’t need anything! Who always got back up. Who was important, and good, and important.

Who was absolutely lost when it came to the issues of one small girl.

He told Launchpad about it, sharing coffee on the roof after they’d taken down a small drug ring that had begun to operate on the west side.

“So…” he said, “I wanted your opinion on something.”

Launchpad drained the rest of his coffee and reached for the box of donuts he’d put next to his knee. “Sure, buddy! Anything!”

“There’s… this girl.”

Launchpad’s eyebrows rose. “Gotta tell you. I’m not the best at that sort of thing.”

“ No , not like… she’s a little girl. A kid. Seven years old. A fan.”

“Ah.”

“I met her when she was younger. Her grandfather owned this company when he was alive, and I did a job there, and she ran into me. Totally a fan of the show. I was happy to talk to her. But then she gave me this letter, and I wrote back and…” he shrugged. “We wrote for a whole year.”

“That’s good. Right?”

“It was. But then- the letters got… bad.” He stared at his feet. “Custody issues. Bad home. The girl was reaching out, and I didn’t know what to do about it. I still don’t know what to do about it. And now that my place at the studio is gone, I don’t get them anymore. I don’t even know if she’s still sending them.”

“Hmm…” Launchpad popped the rest of his donut into his mouth. “So what’s the question.”

Drake looked off over the city. The light pollution from below clung to the buildings and burned away at glass and metal. “I don’t know.” He flicked a pebble off into towards the street below. “Darkwing would have known what to do here. He’d probably have a twelve step plan in place. Something to do with getting the people who’d hurt her. Finding evidence. Solving a crime.” He punched the air. “You know. Something like that.”

His friend nodded. “Well, it sounds to me like you’re worried.”

“I mean- I am .”

“So why don’t you go see her!”

“What?” He blinked, shaking his head. “I can’t just swing down and see- I don’t even know where she lives!”

“No. But you know where her grandfather works, right?”

Drake blinked again. He grinned, and reached for a donut. “Launchpad,” he said. “You’re a genius.”

* * *

Mr. Waddlemeyer wasn’t sure what to think when, upon locking up his lab for the night, he was met with Darkwing Duck standing in the empty hallway just outside.

Mr. Waddlemeyer blinked. “Um,” he said.

Darkwing Duck rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey,” he said with a little wave. “So… I think I’ve been talking to your granddaughter for a year .”

“Um…”

He smiled again, awkward and unsure, rocking on his heels. “And anyway, I’ve been sort of worried about her. And my sidekick -nice guy, super cool- said I should talk to you about it, since you’d probably know her better than I did. Or. Definitely know her better. But…” he laughed nervously. “You know.”

Mr. Waddlemeyer stared at the superhero for another moment.

He definitely wasn’t what the man expected.

Waddlemeyer had been watching the news on and off. He’d sort of thought the hero who was dumping villains on the steps of every precinct in town would have been a little more like the old TV show he’d grown up with.

Self assured.

Big headed.

Showy and bursting with bravado.

This Darkwing is… not.

He’s a little more jittery. A little more rattled.

The Darkwing he remembered from Television had also, if memory served, never spent time with children long enough to seek out their relatives and ask about them.

“You’re worried about my granddaughter?”

Darkwing nodded.

“Why?”

The hero looked a little lost for words. “Because… I want to be someone kids look up to?”

“You broke into a lab to ask my about my granddaughter. This isn’t about looking up .”

Darkwing swallowed. His fingers tangled in his cape. “I guess,” he said finally, “it’s because she sounded like she needed someone. Sort of. And she wanted someone to be a hero. And…” his feet shuffled. In the dark of the hallway, he was swallowed by shadows. “I want to make sure she’s alright.”

Waddlemeyer watched him another moment. And then he turned and unlocked the door to the lab.

“I’ll brew some tea,” he said.

Darkwing hesitated a moment before following him through.

* * *

The hero and the scientist talked through the night and early into the morning about the girl.

About how she was lonely.

About how she was afraid.

About how that little fire her grandfather so loved (but no one else could stand) was beginning to fizzle out.

About how she was turning off and away.

“Her mother, my daughter,” Waddlemeyer tells him over a cup of chamomile, “never wanted to be a mother.”

“Oh.”

“But she became one. And Gosalyn sort of fell into things.”

Darkwing curled his hands around the mug. “Her letters got sadder,” he said. “I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“That’s for me to figure out. And I am,” the older man said. “I’m figuring it out.”

“How?”

“Social services.” He sat back, shoulders slumping. “I began calling years ago, when she was two or three, but we didn’t have much then. Actually, most of what I got was after you showed up again on the screen.”

Darkwing, who’d been taking a sip of his tea, nearly choked. “ Me ?”

“Mmm. I don’t know what it is about you. But as soon as she saw you…” he snapped his fingers, “she lit up. And when you wrote her back? Things got easier once she began looking up to someone. She grew away from her parents. Her parents grew larger. Social services began to pay attention. And thus, the dominos fell.” He sighed, blowing steam across the mug and onto his hands. “Now it’s only a matter of time.”

“And you’ll take custody.”

“I love her. She’s a good kid. Spirited, and a little explosive. But she’s good. And,” he added after another sigh, “there’s no one else.”

His face was long, and worn, and tired, but it brightened up enough for him to say, “just a few more weeks. They said by her eighth birthday. That’s around the corner. They’ll lose custody, and I take her.”

Staring down at his mug, Darkwing nodded. He put it down and slid his hat off his head. “I couldn’t get any letters to her anymore,” he said.

“I know.”

“Did she keep sending them?”

Her grandfather put his own mug down. He stood up and rounded the chairs towards his desk, rifling through drawers. “I wasn’t sure what to do with these, actually,” he said. “The woman from child services already has pictures, but she let me keep the originals. They got… helpless.” He grimaced, staring down at a few.

From behind fingers, Drake could read some of the words:

Alone

Help

Pink

Waddlemeyer handed them across towards him. “Take them. I don’t want them. I’ve read them enough times. Sad things.”

He took them carefully. “Thank you.”

With a hum, Waddlemeyer sat back down. “If you want to respond, just leave them with me. On my desk, or something. You can obviously get it. When they hand over custody, we’ll be moving out. Fresh start and all that. Might be the last time you hear from her.”

Behind a purple vest, Darkwing’s ribs squeezed. He nodded anyway, looking down at the familiar green writing.

A year.

He’d been talking to this child for a year .

Felt he knew her. What she liked. Who she was. What she needed.

And she’d be gone.

Safe , his mind reminded him. She’ll be safe .

“Darkwing?” He looked up from the notes towards Waddlemeyer, who was watching him carefully. “You were an actor, weren’t you?”

“I… was.” His shoulders tensed. “No one really knows my name, so-”

Waddlemeyer snorted. “I barely remember your name. Don’t worry about secrets. They’re safe with me. But… going from an actor? To this? I know you said you wanted to be a hero but…”

“I know.” He tried to laugh, but it came out weak. “I guess it was just- it came easily.”

“Easier than being an actor?”

“Somehow, yeah. It just… came easily. Darkwing would have done something like this,” he tells the man. “I mean, I’ve modeled my whole life after the guy! Darkwing would know what to do.” 

“What would Darkwing do?”

“Probably keep writing,” he said, honestly. “Maybe after things clear over I can actually write her again, somehow. Let her know that Darkwing is still on her side. Watching and helping her. Keeping all his citizens safe.”

“Ah.” The older man nodded. “So Darkwing did the safe thing, then? Very easy to do behind a mask.”

Darkwing wasn’t sure how to answer that. So he let it fall into silence.

They finished their tea, and Darkwing left out a back window.

He sat on the roof of the building for a time and watched the sun come up, feathering over the deep sky, and coaxing it away with fire.

“Safe,” he reminded himself. “You’ve got nothing to do with this. She’ll be safe. That’s all you need.”

* * *

On patrol two weeks later, Darkwing would be the first to see the morning newspaper thrown out of the truck.

Waddlemeyer’s heart attack was front page news.

* * *

It had only taken a few minutes for Gosalyn’s life to be thrown up and out. When her mother had answered the phone late Friday night and said one word before staying quiet, listening.

Her face had gone pale.

There was a jingling of keys and her mothers quick feet. Gosalyn had been off in the living room when she’d hurried past, and she’d followed. She’d never seen her mother convey more than distaste.

To see this -fear- scared her.

“I have to go.” Her mother unlocked the car, opening the front door. That was all she said. “I have to go.” And then; “Hospital.”

“ What ? Why!”

But that was all her mother would say, running out the front door, closing it behind her.

Gosalyn had thrown it open, hearing it slam as she flew down the steps. She hadn’t put shoes on over her soft, gosling feet, and she felt the concrete tear and pinch. Running outside as her mother pulled the car out of the driveway. “Mom-” she called after, panting, running fast as she could in her pink dress down their too-big lawn. “ Why !”

She wouldn’t get an answer.

Not until her mother came home and sat her in the kitchen and told her.

“I’m sorry,” said her mother. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t cry.

But Gosalyn did. Retreating into her room, she screamed and howled and stormed and whirled and raged and snapped and broke .

There was Pink all around her, and for once it didn’t just push away.

It swallowed.

It drowned.

Pink was in her hands. Pink was thrown across the room. There was the sound of shattering as she grabbed whatever she could find and hurled it towards the pink walls and the pink ceiling and the pink carpet.

She listened to everything break around her, and that only made her throw things harder when it wouldn’t drown out the awful heat - tumbling, collapsing, fracturing - behind her eyes.

Alone.

He’d left her alone .

They’d all left her alone .

How the box ended up in her hands, she wasn’t sure. But there was paper everywhere. Purple ink. Green, unsent ink. Forgotten ink.

She grabbed it by the handful, fisting each letter.

It took so little effort to tear everything in half. And then tear it again.

She kept ripping. Kept mangling. And only stopped after-

(gosalyn)

(darkwing)

(alone, alone, alone)

-the pink carpet was scattered with shredded paper.

And then she sat.

And she breathed.

Staring at the mess around her. Broken glass. Punctures in the wall. Ruined paint.

Tears collected and burned behind her eyes as she slipped down to the Pink carpet, feeling bits of glass and plaster pricking her fingers. From downstairs, there wasn’t a sound. Her mother had left again.

She ran her hand along the torn bits of paper.

And the fire that had so quickly burned her bright simmered away, and Gosalyn was left in little more than ash.

The last letter she’ll write will be for herself.

She knows he won’t respond. But she doesn’t care. He hadn’t responded for some time, anyway.

Her pen stilled on the page. It trembled and shivered. Her letters were wobbly and odd. The paper was crumpled and the pen barely had any ink in it, so she’d had to switch out her green pen for a pink one.   
  
**Darkwing Duck,**

**My name is Gosalyn.**

**And I don’t like anything.**

* * *

The next day social services would be at the door.

Gosalyn would go without a word.

* * *

Darkwing Duck heard about everything from the newspapers, and he’d shown them all to Launchpad, waving them around his sidekicks face. “Did you see this ? Foster care! She wasn’t supposed to go to foster care !”

“That’s usually what happens, DW.” He shook his head, looking upset. That was the great thing about Launchpad. When he looked upset, he meant it, and it did at least a little something to quell Drake’s anger.

But not much.

He searched through the paper for more clues, but came up dry until he’d reached the obituaries section. Waddlemeyer had died a few days before, but his name still popped up under their events.

“The funeral…” he looked up at Launchpad. “What do you think the chances are she’ll be there?”

“Look, DW… I know you’re upset. But she’ll get through it. And you didn’t really know her.”

“But I do know her,” Darkwing said. “I know her enough! And she might need- she said she needed heroes, right? That’s what she said she wanted-”

“Maybe we should focus on some other stuff now, like-”

“Do you think she’ll be there?”

Launchpad fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. Nodded.

* * *

Darkwing goes to the funeral because it’s what Darkwing Duck would do. 

He would stay just far away enough to keep himself distant, but close enough to seem heroic. He was a man of the people, but a loner at heart. He appeared to let people know he was there. 

He did things by himself. 

So that’s what Darkwing does. 

The second time Gosalyn and Darkwing meet, it’s after her grandfather’s funeral.

It’s not a long meeting. It’s not a good meeting, either.

He’d taken the shortcut to St. Edelberts Cathedral, hopping from building to building, sliding down fire escapes, landing square in the alley besides the church.

She came out on her own before anyone else had left. The door opened, and he could hear the organ playing from behind her before it closed again, and she was covered in silence.

She looked small. Too small sitting on the marble steps.

There’s no paper or ink between them. Just space and air. He emerged from the shadows of the alleyway, and she looked up and… there they were. The both of them. And so when she stares at him like he doesn’t exist, like he might just evaporate into a purple smudge when she blinks, he’s not sure how to handle it.

“I’m so sorry.” He tries his best. It’s all he can do. Stepping forward through the space.

She’s on her feet fast as she could be, tripping over the one behind her.

“… Darkwing?”

He tried for a smile. It fell flat. “Hi… hello.”  

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to say…” he fumbled, hands turning to fists where they still sat in his pockets. “I wanted to say I was sorry. And… if there was anything I could do-”

She shook her head. “I’m going away, soon.”

“I know.”

“My grandpa died.”

“… I know.”

She swallowed hard, looking away for just long enough that the light from the church caught the sheen of her eyes. “You never wrote me back…” There’s a vicious betrayal behind her voice. “I wanted to be your sidekick. I told you that… that there were bad things, but you never came.” She looked back at him again. “You were supposed to be a hero.”

His lungs twinged. Something in his chest snapped. “I couldn’t do anything.”

“ Why ?”

“Because that’s not what heroes do. We really don’t have much control over social services, kid. That stuff- it’s all up to normal people. The government. Not people in capes.”

“Then what do they do?”

“They… I don’t know. Stop bad guys. Keep people safe. Watch out for crime. Stuff like that.”

The hurt around her thick. “But I needed you.”

“Your grandfather… he did everything.”

Her pigtails slapped the side of her head when she shook her head. “But now he’s not here. And I’m going somewhere else, far away.” She sniffled. “I don’t want to go far away. I wanted to be here. I wanted to be a hero .”

He moved closer, hands finally falling from inside his pockets to move forward, outstretched. “You can be!”

She shook her head again. “I don’t want to be, anymore.”

His hands fell.

She backed away, up another step. “You stop bad guys, and you fight crime. But… but you can’t even write a letter. You can’t even stop bad things from happening.”

“Gosalyn, I’m sorry .”

“You’re just a stupid guy.” She wiped at her eyes quickly before anything could fall. “A stupid, dumb guy, wearing a stupid, dumb costume who wants to be alone . Well- well being alone sucks .” Her voice was rising, fists tightening. “And if that’s what being a hero is, then you can keep it.”

“Gosalyn, please . If I could-”

“Go away.” Her sleeve was up again, wiping her eyes. “Go away .”

She went back into the church.

He stood there for a while, listening to the faint hum of the service from inside.

The empty feeling settled in deep.

For once, Darkwing Duck was the one who felt like an absolute nothing.

* * *

Launchpad is a fountain of soft wisdom.

It only takes a few days to extend a hand towards his friend, who throws himself into work tirelessly to push away some sort of hidden hurt.

“DW?”

Darkwing, perched on the top of a fire escape, grunts.

“DW, not to complain… I mean- I love doing this crime fighting bit with you. But do you think, maybe, we can talk about the funk you’re in.”

“It’s not a funk .” Drake took out a pocket tracker he’d been using lately, turning dials to pick up on what the warnings police had been broadcasting all night. Something about a car theft from the upper east side. He could handle that, easy.

“No. I’m sure it’s not but… you know…” he shrugged. “Ever since you went to see the girl-”

“That’s over,” Drake said. “She didn’t want to see me.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a kid . Kids say that stuff. Trust me! I work with a few!”

Drake was quiet a moment, looking over the city. “I barely knew her,” he said, finally. “So it doesn’t matter. She’s in good hands. The city’ll take care of her.”

“She could be in better hands.”

Drake looked down at Launchpad, who was leaning on a railing, picking at the rust casually. “I told you what she said.” The words still stung when he thought back to them. “She doesn’t want a hero. I didn’t write her back.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“Yeah, well…” He scrubbed his face. “What use is Darkwing Duck if he can’t help one lousy kid.”

Again, Launchpad went silent. And he stayed that way for a while. The two of them watched the lights flicker and pulse around them. Across town, a siren roared to life. Cats mewled in the alleyways. Everything smelled a little like after-rain and plaster.

“You know…” Launchpad sat back from the railing, brushing dust off his hands, “not to push you or anything, but maybe Darkwing Duck can’t do anything. Still doesn’t mean that Drake Mallard can’t, either.” He reached out and took the police scanner from Darkwing’s hands, pressing a few buttons. It burst to life. “Come on. Robbery on 32nd. You wanna hit it?”

Drake Mallard nodded and followed after him.

When the suns just coming up the ridge, the lair in sight, Launchpad grabs his shoulder and squeezes it. “You know,” he said. “I keep thinking about Darkwing Duck. The original one. Jim Starling one.”

“Yeah?”

“He was alone a lot. That was his thing, you know?”

Drake did know. His entire life was modeled after the guy. Down to everything he did, said, believed. “That’s who he was. The lone ranger type, you know?”

“Yeah. Well. I was thinking. There were a few episodes where Darkwing got home, and looked sad. Because he didn’t have anyone. And I always sort of thought that was alright, because that’s who he was.” Launchpad gave his shoulder another rough squeeze. “Just saying. There might be more to life than that. You know?”

* * *

Drake Mallard loves Darkwing Duck. 

It’s what he knows. It’s what he’s comfortable with. 

(It’s what he hides behind)

Darkwing Duck would know exactly what to do here. Darkwing Duck was tough. Resilient. Firm. Always got back up. He’d probably write the kid back and tell her that. 

“Get back up,” he’d say. “You’re strong. You can do things alone. Get back up.” 

He stood in the empty lair. 

 _What about Drake Mallard_ , a well-stomped-away voice squeaks into existence.  _What can he do_? 

* * *

Gosalyn wasn’t sure what to think when they told her she was being transferred into a new home.

“He’s never been in the system before,” the woman, Patty, told her as they drove down the lazy roads of a cookie-cutter street. “Actually, he’s sort of new to everything. New house. New job. He seems nice-”

“So did everyone else,” Gosalyn mumbled.

House after house had politely requested she be taken away when they realized she liked to practice backflips in her room and in the backyard. After she’d broken one too many lamps. After she refused to talk about what she liked and didn’t like, and spent hours locked away.

Patty looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Give them a chance,” she said. “You don’t know what they’re like unless you give them a chance.”

They pulled into a driveway of a little white house.

The man sitting on the steps was wearing a pink shirt. He waved when Patty walked over the lawn, fingers tugging nervously on his buttons. Gosalyn stood back.

Patty turned around. “Gosalyn, stop being difficult. Come on. Come say hello!”

Gosalyn ground her teeth and stomped up to him. She glared, arching her back to look at him. “Your shirt’s pink,” she said, voice low and rough. “I  _hate_  pink.”

Patty’s face turned a nice shade of pink at that moment, and she looked about ready to yell something down to the little girl about being polite and kind and  _this is why people keep sending in complaints_  and  _can’t you just please try to be nice for once_! 

She didn’t get a chance when the man by her began to laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know. You like green, right?”

Gosalyn stared at him. 

Then he reached into his pocket.

Gosalyn blinked.

Stopped.

Breathed.

“Sorry it took me this long to respond,” he said, holding out the letters. “Drake Mallard had to take off the mask, first.”

Patty doesn’t know what to say when the little girl falls against the Man in the Pink Shirt.

* * *

He’s not Darkwing Duck. He tells her that.

His name is Drake Mallard. A former actor and a current superhero. 

He wasn’t much of anything special behind the mask, though.

“You don’t know me very well,” he admitted, looking just as nervous as she did. “You know  _Darkwing_. And I’m not really him. I’m someone else.”

“Oh.”

“But I really did want to help you,” he added. “And I really am done with being alone. So I thought, maybe, we could try the whole family thing out together?” 

“Oh,” she says again. Her bag is in her new room and they’re sitting on the floor of the living room, facing one another, a box of pizza between them. She looked down at her hands. “Well,” she said. “If I gave you a list of things I liked, maybe you could tell me what you liked. Maybe we’d have stuff in common.”

Drake Mallard laughed. “I think that’s a great idea.”

* * *

Gosalyn Mallard turned eight years old and decided that her favorite color was definitely green.

Her favorite dinosaur was the stegosaurus.

Her favorite sport was probably hockey.

Her favorite shirt was the jersey stuffed in the back of her drawers that she saved for special occasions.

And her favorite person was surprisingly  _not_  Darkwing Duck.

But the man behind the mask (who loved some of the same things, except for knitting and sewing and baking) definitely was. 

He made great cookies. 

He knew how to tuck her in. 

They painted her room green. 

Somehow, he knew just the right way to hug. 

It was also the year she decided that things were worth liking again.

* * *

Drake Mallard was almost 40, came from nowhere, and wasn’t much of anything special.

But apparently, a year later, after Gosalyn (officially his, last name and all) handed him a list of  **THINGS I LIKE**  that had his name right at the top, he figured that being Drake Mallard may not have been the worst.

Drake Mallard has friends. Drake Mallard has a new house, with a nice kitchen, and a good place to knit. 

Drake Mallard has a daughter, who breaks a few lamps, and never cleans her room, and winds her arms around him before she goes to bed, mumbling little embarrassed  _I love you’s_  into his pink shirt. 

“Love you too, slugger,” he always says, sending her up. 

Darkwing Duck never had that. 

Taking off the mask and balancing the time between gets easier. 

Apparently, asking what Drake Mallard would do had benefits. Because Drake Mallard knew how to read bedtime stories, and Drake Mallard knew how to foster kids, and Drake Mallard knew how to patch up scrapes, and make a pie, and host eight year old birthday parties. 

Drake Mallard definitely knew how to sign adoption papers, and then realize, moments later he had.

Drake Mallard could realize he was in too deep and had absolutely fallen head over heels for a little girl. 

Darkwing Duck couldn’t have done all that. 

* * *

They begin finding that they like life a whole lot more when they’re a family, exploring the world together. They don’t know each other as well as they could. Not yet. But they have time. 

And so they crumple up all their old letters and lists of ice cream and colors and dinosaurs and slowly-

(ever so slowly)

-start again. 


End file.
